


I'm On A Horse!

by derryderrydown



Category: British Comedian RPF
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-05-02
Updated: 2010-05-02
Packaged: 2017-10-09 06:30:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 789
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/84072
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/derryderrydown/pseuds/derryderrydown
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for the anonymeme prompt: Charlie in a uniform on a horse being sexy.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I'm On A Horse!

Cornet Charlton Brooker of the Chestnut Company of the 14th Light Dragoons glared at his horse.

His horse blew out a snorting breath, spattering spit and snot over Brooker's dark blue tunic with its gold facings.

"I'm going to turn you into fucking _glue_," Brooker said.

The horse didn't seem particularly bothered by the threat and, with a sigh, Brooker had another attempt at fastening the girth. It didn't get far because Frederick was still managing to breathe in deep enough that the girth didn't even reach the straps.

"Right," Brooker said, and marched round to Frederick's off side, where he proceeded to fasten the girth to the lowest possible hole. "If it _still_ won't reach," he said, heading back to the near side, "I'm putting you on a diet. Because you're evidently far too much of a lardarse to be an effective fighting animal."

Frederick just stretched his head down and snatched a mouthful of grass.

"I've just cleaned your fucking bit!" Brooker said, doing his best to retrieve the grass. It was made more difficult by Frederick sticking his head high in the air, out of Brooker's reach.

And he could have yanked Frederick's head down if he'd used the lower reins but those cheek curb bits were vicious and he was too soft-hearted. So instead, he grabbed the upper reins and settled into a battle of strength. Frederick deigned to let Brooker win, but not until he'd eaten his grass.

"I'd lop your balls off if you still had them," Brooker said, and reached under Frederick's belly for the dangling girth. Which had, of course, wound up resting in a pile of horseshit. Still, at least it could _reach_ now. Only on the loosest hole but it was a start.

"Having trouble?" somebody asked and Brooker looked up to see Cornet David Mitchell immaculately dressed and mounted on Algernon. Algernon was as beautifully turned out as his rider, and Brooker was willing to bet that fucking _Algernon_ never got up to this sort of crap.

"No, no," Brooker said, casually. "No problems."

Frederick, of course, chose that moment to lift his tail and let out a resounding fart."You've got something on your tunic," Mitchell said helpfully, gesturing to his own tunic.

"Oh, shit," Brooker said. Because it was shit. "How long until we're due on parade?"

"Five minutes."

Brooker looked at the pile of gear next to a still-mostly-undressed Frederick and said, "Shitty shit shit shit fuck."

"Here, let me give you a hand," Mitchell said and dismounted from Algernon. He didn't even bother tying the horse, Brooker noted bitterly. If Frederick had been left untied, he'd have made a break for the feedshed but _Algernon_ just stood there with docility oozing from every pore.

The possibility occurred to him that it was something to do with Mitchell, not Algernon, because now Frederick was standing quietly as Mitchell tightened his girth, without even the usual threatening wave of his near hind leg.

"Shabraque?" Mitchell asked, and Charlie handed it to him without a word. Mitchell got the decorative dark blue and gold cover over the saddle without it having the slightest wrinkle. Bastard. "Sheepskin?" Mitchell started to pull a face as Brooker handed it over but stopped himself. "It's a bit dingy, isn't it?" he said instead, and brushed futilely at it.

"Yeah," Brooker said. "I've got no idea how to clean it."

Mitchell looked a bit puzzled. "That's your groom's job."

"He doesn't know, either."

"Well, then, you've got a rubbish groom."

"I know," Brooker said. "Trooper Shitpeas."

"Oh, you poor fuck," Mitchell said with heartfelt sympthy. He cleared his throat, and said, "Um, the surcingle?"

Brooker handed over the equally grubby webbing surcingle.

"Well," Mitchell said as he fastened the surcingle, voice stuffed full of fake cheerfulness, "at least most of it'll be covered up when you're mounted?"

"Oh, goodie," Brooker said, and brushed the worst of the shit off his tunic before clambering into the saddle. Frederick didn't even sidle away as he mounted, and then, in an unprecedented move, proceeded to stand completely still as Brooker tightened both girths. "Pass me my shako?" Brooker asked, and Mitchell handed it up, before swinging agilely astride Algernon.

"We'll just about make it," Mitchell said. "Which is a good thing because Colonel Coren's utterly terrifying."

"I couldn't disagree with you less," Brooker said, and paused. "Do you have any idea how our regiment has a woman as colonel?"

"I think," Mitchell said, "nobody dares to tell her she isn't allowed to be a colonel."

"Is it true she called Wellesley a snivelling coward with as much tactical and strategic sense as a half-dead mollusc and he thanked her for it?"

Mitchell considered it. "Probably."  



End file.
